


Eyes

by Holly_and_Ivy



Series: The King's Return [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Merlin can Draw I Guess, Not AU but set in modern times, Return of Arthur, Sad? Ends happy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holly_and_Ivy/pseuds/Holly_and_Ivy
Summary: It's been 1000 years, give or take. No one has been counting, least of all Merlin, who has been trying to forget and run from his grief. Healing takes time, and sometimes, it takes a thousand years. Snapshots of Merlin's life as he wanders the years alone, waiting for his king.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The King's Return [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637053
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Eyes

_In a time long before you or I were born, before Shakespeare wrote his first sonnet, and before the commonwealth was formed, the Roman Empire fell in the place that we know today as Britain. With their collapse, the land fell into dark days with bandits and barbarians running through the land. Kings were cruel and ruthless, and the land was filled with many dangerous pockets._

_But within this dark age, there was light. Magic thrummed within the earth, and dragons flew in the sky. An age of chivalrous nights and beautiful damsels. But of all the amazing things to come from this age, the most remembered, was a coin. Not an actual coin though. Two men, two sides of the same coin, who were destined to create the greatest kingdom in the world._

* * *

Off the coast of Uwchmynydd is Bardsey Island which has few cars and no paved roads, with a population of 200 seals, 300 sheep, and 5 year-round residents. All of this is to say, while it may not be lonely, it is a very cut off place.

On the island there are pockets of houses and other buildings scattered across, such as farms and tourist attractions. But on the Northern side of the island at the bottom of the hill is a tiny blue house with a sad picket fence and weeds popping up in all sorts of places. One of those houses where plants have begun to grow upon the roof and you wonder how much longer it will stand before a strong gust of wind blows it down.

No one had ever dared disturb the resident of this house, a man whom no one has ever actually seen before. He receives no mail and grows his own food. No one is sure how long he has lived there for, as parents of parents of parents seem to remember him. Some believe that no one is in the house anymore, that he died years ago, but no one wants to check, too afraid to step near the small plot of land. And so, the man goes undisturbed, left alone in his own world, the way he wants it.

Inside the house, hands slammed down on the lid of a desk with a deafening thump. The room was silent besides broken breathing and the old grandfather clock ticking away in the corner of the room. Bony hands gripped the now closed desk causing his knuckles to turn white, and the man who belonged to the hands was hunched over whilst trembling. He stayed in this position for several minutes, before the kettle in the other room began to whine. Even with the increasing volume of the little appliance, it took the man several moments to compose himself enough to get up.

The man shuffled his way into the little kitchen and flicked the kettle off ceasing its cry. He pulled out his singular mug and made his cup of tea. He then sat down at the kitchenette that held one squeaky kitchen chair. The man sat quietly, stirring the tea while adding a splash of milk to the steaming cup. After a while, he got up to pull out a moleskin notebook and golden quill pen and began to write.

The man’s house was very small. A kitchen, a living space, a bathroom, and a bedroom more akin to a closet made up his home. The living room, sparsely furnished, had all sorts of things adorning the walls. Shelves upon shelves of brightly coloured books (many of which were classical literature or science books), photographs of the country side, and his own unfinished drawings. The drawings were rather good but were all missing their eyes. There was weathered arm chair next to the window and a table with books was in the centre of the room. A messy desk sat in the corner, with a lantern lit above it. In all, there were no signs that anyone but he had ever lived there. He was utterly alone.

When the man finished his writing, he left the kitchen, ducking through the door frame and entering the living room. He wandered over to his desk and picked up a crumpled piece of drawing paper. He placed it on the desk and smoothed it out, smudging the paper with ink. On the paper was a nearly finished portrait of a man, and the man on the page was beautiful. But, like all of the other drawings, he lacked eyes. It was clear that the man had attempted again and again to conjure up some eyes, but they had been erased many times causing the paper to thin out and rip. The dark-haired man looked down on his creation held within his trembling hands and sighed. He rifled through his desk to find a pin, and when he found it, pinned it up on the wall next to the others.

He sighed, turning away from his drawing.

It was getting dark, and so the man decided to retire to bed. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he told himself, ‘I’ll go out there.’

And so, the lights went out slowly, and the man quietly settled down to read. Tomorrow, but, probably not.

* * *

He lay on the small cot that the Inn provided in the drafty room. He stared up at the ceiling, blocking out the boisterous noise coming from the tavern located on the other side of his wall. It was loud and irritating, but also a great comfort for the young man who could not distract his mind in silence anymore. The wall shook as some unruly drunk fell into it on the other side, singing and laughing joyfully. Merlin didn’t even glance.

He figured that if he kept his eyes open for long enough and grew tired, that he would fall into unconsciousness without effort.

It had been four days.

Sleep continued to evade him.

Maybe it was because with every flutter of eyelashes, Merlin would see the golden King. Or with every restful moment, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of every bad decision he had ever made that had gotten him to this very place: Miles away from Camelot, curled up in another inn that took pity upon him, warding off the memory of his King.

Four weeks. That’s all it had been since the King had died only an arm’s reach from salvation. Merlin felt like a failure, and a coward. A coward because the warlock couldn’t go home. No, he could not bear to look Guinevere in the eyes and tell her what had befallen her love. Couldn’t imagine the pity in Gaius’s, or the judgement in the Knights. Merlin couldn’t do that, and it made him feel worse than he already did.

Besides, he told himself, he would go back to Camelot soon. Once the death of the King was less of a gaping hole in his heart, and more of a sting, he would return. And maybe by then, that royal prat would be back anyways. Terrible things happened all the time in this land, and the King was never one to look away. He would definitely come back soon, the noble prat. Just last week a kingdom had gotten into some sort of war. Merlin wasn’t sure, only drifting through towns and villages picking up very little. But the King would know.

Merlin smiled for the first time in weeks, secure in the knowledge the Great Dragon had imparted on him. The King would soon return, and everything would be as it was.

* * *

Once again, the world was plunged into violence. The violence wasn’t without merit, Merlin had to admit, but he did wish that things could have changed since the 5th century. The American revolution had just ended, and with it, the French revolution was beginning. Well, one of the French revolutions. All of this social change and enlightenment, Merlin thought this would be the perfect time for the King to return to help the masses.

But, there passed another decade of violence, both against the masses and the nobility (while Merlin could see the merit in that too, he still felt there was a better way… he knew that violence only leads to more violence). So, for a long while, Merlin was sure beyond belief that his King would rise soon again. It was only a matter of time.

So, Merlin returned to the lake to bide his time. But then, the revolutions kept coming, and terrible wars kept happening, and the King wasn’t there.

So, there was Merlin, sitting on the banks of a forgotten lake hoping with the last of his heart that the golden man would come back to him. Staring wistfully at the shining water that lapped at the edge of the shore. He sat there for hours under the cloudy sky, the early spring weather nipping at his ankles and leaving a chill in his bones. But the King did not come, so Merlin left. Just to come back the next day, and the next day, and the next day for a week, each day becoming less and less optimistic. He sat at the edge of the lake for a long time, sketchbook in hand, detailing his memory out onto the page as he waited for a man who would never come. He sketched for so long, trapped in the past, that he almost forgot that the King was gone.

So, when Merlin snapped out of his lost world on the eighth day of waiting, something inside him snapped. He looked down at his sketchbook with distaste, snapping it shut and putting it back into his bag. It is likely impossible to equivocate what Merlin must have been feeling in that moment. The aching in his heart was still there- a feeling that never, ever left him- but there was a sharper edge to it, like a new knife cutting into old wounds that had never fully healed. This feeling travelled through his veins, making his body ache in this same way.

Merlin stood and picked up a smooth stone and held it firmly in his hand. He thought of Morgana, whom had caused all of this, and without her, the King likely would have lived a long life to fulfill his prophecy. He thought of Gaius and Kilagarah, who were often unhelpful when he asked them for it. And he thought of the King, resting somewhere between life and death, leaving he, Merlin, to wait for centuries for the pompous idiot to come back to life.

Merlin was shaking where he stood, and not from the cold. Angry tears welled up and jumped from his eyes as he squeezed the rock. Without even thinking, he threw the smooth rock out to the middle of the lake. It flew surprisingly far before plinking beneath the surface. The same spot that Merlin had last seen Excalibur. For a moment, Merlin felt a bit better having been able to blow off some steam. But then he realized what he had done, basically throwing a rock at a grave, and felt immeasurably guilty for it.

His anger then turned on himself. Who was he to be angry when he had been given an uncountable amount of years while others had had theirs taken from them so cruelly? He who had created so many of the problems that ultimately lead to the Kings death? Had he helped Morgana when she needed him, or listened to Kiligarahs warnings, perhaps the evil could have been avoided. Maybe if he had revealed himself sooner, the King would have been more open to Merlin’s help.

So, he seethed at himself, angry at himself for so many things.

However still, there was a lingering bit of anger at the King.

* * *

The last time Merlin had been to France, Notre Dame cathedral was but a dream. But there it was in all its glory, taller than many buildings that Merlin had seen. The architecture was beautiful, with the two evenly spaced towers, the grand balconies and the rose window that looked out at Paris like an eye of God. Merlin couldn’t believe such a structure existed, having taken a century to build with such intricate details. Merlin loved it.

While not sure where he fell in terms of religiosity, Merlin fell in love with this building, and knew he had to see the inside of it as well. Being night, he knew that the doors would be locked, and decided not to try anything with magic, so he went around to the back of the building where there would likely be a smaller entrance for people to enter. He walked close to the buildings edge, looking up and marvelling at the structure.

Eventually he found an entrance which was locked, but being so secluded, Merlin used magic to open the door up.

Merlin wandered for a time, taking in the beauty of the building, in awe of the massive structure. Inevitably, he found himself in the main hall. While the awe did not drop away, Merlin felt pensive and secluded.

He sat in a secluded part of the main hall. From his spot he could still see the organ and the stain glass images at the front of the room. Its beauty was not lost on Merlin, but the eyes looked out harshly at him from their spot on the glass, making him shudder.

He sat in silence for some time, listening to it and breathing it in.

Maybe there’s something about a cathedral as opulent as this, or maybe it was Merlin’s own love for the building; he wanted to speak. As stated before, Merlin wasn’t a religious man, and didn’t often ponder the likelihood of a grandiose deity ever present above. But he, as most people do at some point or another, felt the pull to put his personal problems into someone else’s hands. So, he looked up, for just a moment, before pulling his eyes back down to the checkered tiles below his feet.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this, I don’t even think that anyone could be listening. But, if there is, I hope that you would,” Merlin spoke as though he were out of practice and sat down on the tiled floor, fidgeting. “It’s just, I’ve been wandering for a very long time, a very, very long time, and I just wanted to know I suppose, whether or not…” he cleared his throat, feeling foolish.

“…Is there a reason that he hasn’t come back yet?” Merlin cringed as he spoke. His voice, quiet before, had accidentally become very loud, echoing around the room.

“You know, I would give up my life for his, in every way. When he was alive, I swore to keep him safe. He always looked at me funny, as though he were asking, ‘what could a skinny twig like you do to keep me safe?’” to which Merlin laughed a little. “The point I want to make though, is that he died so young. Yet here I am, onto my eighth century of life,” Merlin sighed into his hands and rubbed his eyes, leaning back onto the wall. “I’d give anything for him to come back, even if everything meant that I wasn’t there to see him.”

And it was true. Merlin, who had lived his long life, would give up every moment he had left, and every moment he had discarded all for his King.

No one responded, and Merlin did not feel better. Though used to the silence, this time he was uncomfortable. Merlin needed to leave.

When Merlin finally left the Cathedral, dawn was upon him. As he walked out the front doors of the cathedral, not caring who saw him, he took a glance back at the building, and what saw him would haunt him forever. Above the middle doorway was an art piece decorating the heavy door frame. In the tear shaped entrance there were several rows of small people and angels glaring inwards at a scene of Christ and those close to him. Below, a row of people split into two sections. Those saved, and those damned. The saved were being protected by what looked to be an angel of sorts, while the damned were being herded by a demon. To Merlin’s frightened eyes, all the figures seemed to be leering scornfully at him, their empty eyes showing no mercy. His breath caught, and he froze staring at the figures.

He stood there for a long while it seemed, and only moved again when he heard the bells of the cathedral chime, effectively breaking the spell. Merlin wasted no time turning tail and leaving. But before he was out of sight of the cathedral entirely, he turned once more and saw the Rose window staring down on him.

And he also noticed the row of statues lined up not far below that very window. They too glared at him in judgement.

Merlin ran.

* * *

When Merlin saw the title of the book, his breath caught, and his vision blurred. He had heard whispers of names in the wind and had caught grand tales being told by men at the fire. Over time, the tales became farther and farther from the truth and Merlin gave up the fruitless chasing of a name.

But this book in front of him was different.

Their lives written down in grossly inaccurate ways, but beautifully written and printed for all to read. His king immortal on the pages of a book.

It almost made Merlin smile.

But as he looked through the pages and read the stories, the pain attacked him once again. The stories were hardly true, romanticized to the point of being unrecognizable if not for the names. It hurt like a knife wound.

People wouldn’t remember his king for who he was and who he had become, but for a saintly child who did no wrong. He wasn’t human any more. Merely a legend.

Not even that.

A myth.

Merlin snapped the book shut and didn’t open it again.

* * *

The man sauntered about his house, not doing much of anything. Here and there he would straighten something out like a picture on the wall, or sweep a pile of dust out the door, but he had no goal in mind. Like always. So much time, but never doing anything with it.

The man put that thought out of his mind, allowing himself to get lost in his dusting, humming quietly as he moved throughout the room.

It was then that the man bumped into the grandfather clock, clumsy as ever. It crashed to the ground with a ginormous bang, silencing the ever-present tick-tock. It was quiet now. The man tutted, both embarrassed and annoyed to have destroyed such a device in such an ungraceful way. He bent down to assess the damage.

_Who knows, maybe it can be fixed,_ he thought, staring at the broken clock face and shattered glass.

As he cleared up the mess, putting pieces of the clock into a wooden chest, he noticed something he hadn’t in years. Behind where the clock had stood was a red cape draped narrowly on the wall obviously covering something, but the man couldn’t remember what was behind it. It had been so long since he had placed it up that it could really be anything. So, the man removed the red cape, setting it down on the ground, and took in what he saw.

It was a man. Pale skin, dark hair, and stick out ears. Basic features of course, but the skin of the man was almost translucent as though he did not go outside often, and the hair was longish, nearly covering the ears. But what struck him the most were the eyes. They were just empty. There was nothing behind them; no flicker of light, or ocean of sadness. The man just looked lost, like he didn’t even know himself anymore. The man sure didn’t recognize him at first.

Then foolishly it dawned on him. It was himself. He was staring at a mirror.

He was so caught off guard that he just stared at the reflection in front of himself.

_The eyes just looked so empty. Like he might as well not have had them at all._

Like his pictures.

_Couldn’t bear to see their eyes._

For the first time in 1500 years, Merlin really looked at himself. He found the courage to look _himself_ in the eyes. The pain of this simple action made double over, out of breath.

He knew he couldn’t go back anymore. He had to go forward. So, without a thought, Merlin walked frantically around the room ripping down the pictures of long dead friends who lacked eyes to see him. He would give them sight at last.

He started with Gaius, who always seemed to have kind eyes even when he was angry. Merlin could deal with Gaius’s eyes. The eyes he gave him were sloppy, out of practice with this facial feature, giving the picture an uncanny look to it. But they were there, and so Merlin allowed himself to move on.

Next was Percival. Then Gwaine, and Lancelot, and Leon. Every set of eyes became more real, setting into the picture naturally. Then it was sweet Gwen, whom he hadn’t allowed himself to miss over the years.

These were goodbyes to people who had been dead for over a thousand years because he had been to cowardly to do it back then. Merlin wept over his drawings that stared back at him, unjudgementally, and realized that the same would have been said of his friends. They wouldn’t have blamed him for the Kings death. The only one who did, was Merlin. He cried harder.

It was dark now, Merlin had been sitting at the desk the entire day without realizing it. The room was encased in darkness, but Merlin couldn’t rest now. He still had one more picture to complete. Possibly the hardest one of all.

Arthur Pendragons eyeless face glared up at him from the paper.

* * *

It started raining that night. The wind whipped the trees of the island too-and-throw, and the ocean waves knocked the island ‘ferry’ against the jetty viciously. The combination of the cloud coverage and the pouring rain made seeing nearly impossible. The animals had all taken refuge either in barns or pavilions, or in sea caves. The people of the island were shut up in their houses, praying that the savage wind wouldn’t lift their houses away like Dorothy’s.

But not Merlin. No, the old warlock was busy, carefully crafting Arthurs eyes from the depths of his suppressed memory. He had worked so hard to push the lifeless eyes away, that he had pushed all of Arthur away, not even referring to him by name.

Arthur.

Drawing these memories out of his mind took effort, and Merlin knew that he had to get these eyes right, so he could see them again.

He didn’t even notice the storm despite its loud presence, and maybe he should have paid more attention.

There was magic in the air.

But Merlin looked down on the paper studiously, tongue stuck out in concentration as he sketched Arthurs eyes.

It was when the storm stopped abruptly that Merlin looked up from his sketch. The torrential rain hadn’t even turned into a pattering of mist. It had stopped like a snap of a finger. Merlin looked around his house curiously, getting up from the desk slowly to make his way over to the window. Looking out, he saw the moon, full and bright with thousands of stars surrounding it as though there hadn’t been clouds at all.

It was then that Merlin felt it. The ancient magic thrummed all around him; in the air, on the ground, from deep within himself. Merlin stood in his home and revelled in it as though he had received an especially good hug. He realized how much he missed the feeling, having not felt it for so, _so_ long. But the smile quickly dropped from his face in realization, mouth widening into an _o_.

He ran to grab his coat and boots, knocking practically everything off the coat rack in the process. He didn’t stop to pick anything up, just bolted out the door, not even closing it as he went. His heart beat in his chest with excitement, and he felt as though it would leap out of him at any moment. As he ran, he slipped through the large patches of mud on his way to the edge of the island, practically landing on his face several times. But the pain and cold of the night didn’t register with him.

It was time.

Merlin hurdled over the few fences scattered about the island, running through the farm fields likely crushing a fair amount of the stock in his path. But he paid no heed to that. The wind was pushing him onwards to the North side.

By the time Merlin arrived on the North side, he looked like a wood sprite with sticks in his hair and mud splashed up on his person. He barrelled toward the sloping land that gave way to the ocean, next to the little jetty where the row-boat sat, peacefully now. Without a care for his health, he ran into the water that landed at about his knees.

In the darkness he waited.

The magic that had been there before continued to thrum around him, and Merlin knew he was in the right place. Arthur would return very soon, and so he kept his eyes trained out on the water.

He didn’t have to wait too long, for which he was grateful, as his body had begun to calm and allow a chill to enter his bones. The moon, full and bright in the sky, got brighter. So bright that the inky darkness was washed away, and Merlin could see the man he had waited for so long rise out of the water. Arthur.

Arthur was visibly confused, and Merlin rushed out to meet him, and pulled him back onto shore. Being near him again was beautiful. It felt as though all those empty years hadn’t even happened, and Merlin wept; though, you wouldn’t be able to tell, since he was soaked anyways.

On shore, merlin rolled Arthur over, so the man lay on his back. Arthur stared up at Merlin blearily before his eyes shut once more. Returning from beyond the grave is tiring. So, Merlin was left with the task of transporting the man back to the safety of Merlin’s cabin.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well, “how is it, that after thousands of years of not eating, you’re still just as heavy?”

**Author's Note:**

> Uwchmynydd: A little town in the UK. 
> 
> Bardsey Island: an island nearby. It is one of the sites some people believe is the location of Avalon. Population numbers were accurate at the time of writing.
> 
> Notre Dame was built between 1163 and 1345, and the first copy of Le Morte D'Arthur wasn't printed until 1485, to the chronology lines up. 
> 
> Arthur and crew would've been alive in like, 300 to 400 ce? I think. Timelines are kinda confusing. If thats accurate, its been 1700 years give or take.


End file.
